Zombie Fruits

I really love it when I open my spam folder and I find absurdities like this:

It's a real piece of art. Timeless like a broken watch. An instant classic. Something to be admired for hours and hours, hung right over the mantle.
Or the toilet.

It really truly is such a breath of fresh air compared to the typical hum-drum I get each day.

Instead of all the usual spam I get suggesting I send my bank account info to some Saudi named Arthur or being hounded by lonely imaginary girls with names such as STaSe81!1XXX (who, due to some staggering level of improbability always just happen to live in my neighborhood) or being constantly offered deals on male enhancement drugs and/or giraffe saddles, I get a cleverly disguised death threat in the form of these goofy little fruits that on first glance seem to have an affinity for reminding me that I didn't don my headband and sweat to the oldies this morning.

Just look at them. No, seriously, do it. Their lifeless zombie eyes are staring into your soul, guilting you into submission.

Truth is, I don't even wear headbands. Why, you don't ask? Because according to the deeply enriching and soul-satisfying wisdom of these zombie fruits I'm morbidly obese and don't have the fashion sense nor the physical integrity of a coconut and/or strawberry.

Honestly, the more I dwell on the above image the more I sink into a form of mind-dumbingly null depression. They seem to be absolutely aghast at the notion that I haven't got the slightest tinkling of a desire to join in with them on their queer physical escapades.
It's as if they're calling out to me in a vaguely-humorous Austrian accent, "Hey, girly man, get up off that chunky bohunkus of yours and work those puny muscles! Or we will seek you out in your sleep and violently punish you for your disobedience to our passive-aggressive methods!"

Oh, that scenario doesn't sound too out of place in the carnival ride which is my life.

But just as I was about to google "zombie fruit evacuation shelters" I noticed something. Upon further inspection I realized that the fruits appear to be lacking the appropriate limbs to carry out the bulk of their little mockery mission.
Yes, stop gasping in awe at my gifted visual comprehension and prowess. This astutely-keen observation of mine may in fact account for their horrified expressions.
It's now as if the coconut is saying to the strawberry, "Oh poo, I think we've overlooked something during the planning and development of our diabolical plot to overthrow the realm within the political aperture of the southern hemisphere."
Thus the strawberry appears to reply with something along the line of "Oh, poo indeed."

Hopefully this means I will be safe from any zombie fruit attacks in the near future.
That sort of thing always puts a kink in my weekend plans.